


Heaven (for a sinner like me)

by VeronicaFerCard



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 20:31:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12778932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeronicaFerCard/pseuds/VeronicaFerCard
Summary: He can feel Thomas’ heartbeat against his own and, regardless of what anyone else might have to say about it, this is the moment, James knows, he has found heaven.





	Heaven (for a sinner like me)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I am new to this fandom and this is the first fic I write for it. Please let me know what you think of it.

_And the arms of the ocean so sweet and so cold_

_And all this devotion I never knew at all_

_And the crashes are heaven for a sinner released_

_And the arms of the ocean delivered me_

He is alive.

 _He is alive._ No thought in James’ head is strong enough to ring louder than those three words. And try as he might, in the moment, he is simply not capable of reigning over his emotions. His heart beats out of compass inside his chest, and he suspects he can no longer hide the tremor in his hands; but all of this takes second place, third even, in his list of priorities. For a man that has spent so much of his life caring about what others thought of him, it surprises James himself, how much it all pales in comparison with the scene before his eyes.

When his wrists are at last free from the shackles his feet, with a mind of their own, decide to move him forward. He is cautious, not because of any doubt, but because he is half afraid his knees might give out. Not a cell in his body seems to know how to deal with this situation, so all James can do is to move forward, step by careful step, until…

He can feel Thomas' heartbeat against his own, and regardless of what anyone else might have to say about it, this is the moment, James knows, he has found heaven.

Thomas’ beard scratches against his face and James welcomes it. His hands explore the novelty of muscles and graying hair. He breathes in the heavy scent of sweat coming from Thomas, he feels it against his skin and he feels blessed. They are dressed like opposites and they fit perfectly into each other’s arms.

Soon, though, much too soon reality's cruel fingers reach within James' head and the sweet taste of Thomas' kiss sours on his tongue. James takes a step back. How could he have been so reckless? He looks around but finds, blessedly, that the few other workers around don’t seem to be paying the two of them any mind.

“Forgive me, I… I couldn’t help myself. I shouldn’t… what if …,” he stutters, incapable of grasping to a single thought.

To his surprise, his alarm is met with a light chuckle.  James frowns as Thomas places a gentle palm on his cheek. Like so many things about him, the skin on his hand is thicker than James remembers ever being. “What do you think half these men are here for, my love?”

“What…”

“We have nothing to worry about in this place,” Thomas reassures him with a kind smile. “An able hand is an able hand. The master here can’t afford to let judgment interfere with his source of income.” He shakes his head, amused with his own speech for some reason. “It’s simply poor business to hate us for who are… or at the very least, to kill us for it.”

James’ brow knits in confusion. “How can you remain so calm about this? Thomas! It’s has been years –”

“Exactly,” Thomas says placidly, though the amused smile slips from his face as it slowly morphs into something small and sad. “I had years. And believe me, my love, the ones I spent preparing the field were the best of them.”

Bedlam. James doesn't dare to ask, not now. There will be time for it later. He doesn't want to taint this moment even more so than he already has. Instead, he does his best to rearrange his features, schooling them back into something neutral. "So, this is heaven?" James asks, taking in the colony for the first time.

The snort he receives from Thomas is unbecoming of any respectable lord. James falls instantly in love with the sound of it. “Well, we’re not dead men, now, are we? Besides, I don’t believe the spirits suffer this much backache at the end of the day.” He groans as he stretches out his back to further his point.

They are slaves here, that much is clear, no matter how many words the lords of this place use to paint their doings in different colors. James should know, he too, has spent years using the whole of his vocabulary to gain support in his endeavors, to prevent people from rising against him. He doesn't voice this to Thomas because there is no use for it now; instead, he smiles at him. “But they treat you well… right?”

Thomas holds his gaze as he answers, “They do, dear. They do.”  With a nod, he turns his back on James, picks up his rake from the ground, and resumes his working. "There's still much to be done before I can rest, I'm afraid," he says as he rakes the soil.

And James can only blink, for the image before him is, for a moment, too strange to comprehend. In all the time he has known him, never has James seen Thomas so much as look at a tool. It's another testimonial of how things have changed that now Thomas' back, his hands, the color on his cheeks, are all proof that, somewhere over the years, he has grown used to heavy work. The lord that has once bled from paper cuts caused by book pages… James shakes his head. Did he cause this? Perhaps if he had put an end to it the first night Thomas kissed him, he and Miranda would still be safe in London.

His silence has probably been too long to bear, for when he checks back into reality, James finds Thomas looking at him. “I know,” he says quietly as he comes closer again, “I know it is strange. It is unknown territory for both of us, but,” he discretely takes hold of one of James’ hands, “I believe that, if we are together, we can make something of it.” He smiles reassuringly. “Miranda wouldn’t approve of the living quarters but I wouldn’t feel bad if you omitted that in your letters.”

James is incapable of returning the smile. In fact, as he stands now he can barely breathe.

“James?” Thomas calls for him, uncertain. “Oh, please tell me you haven’t lost touch. You – you do know where she is, don’t you? You’ve been together, haven’t you?” His hold on James’ hand is boarding on painful, though James wouldn’t, in a million years, think of letting go. “Please, say something. You are scaring me.”

He is saved from having to say anything at all by the master of the plantation, who has at last grown tired of their talking interfering with Thomas’ work.

Thomas sighs. “Follow the path behind the Big House,” he instructs. “It’ll lead you to the workers’ housing. Mine is the furthest downhill.”

“You have a place of your own?” It honestly sounds better than James could have imagined.

“Only because my latest companion perished from a fever not too long ago, and so far men have been scared to even sit too close to me for supper.”  It makes sense now, why they have had so much privacy in this open field since James was delivered here. They are not afraid of him. They are scared of Thomas bringing death to their doorsteps. “Go,” Thomas says, “wait for me there. I shall return by sunset.”

James only notices they are still holding hands when he tries to take a step away and Thomas doesn’t let go. He looks at Thomas, takes in the whole of him. The things he knows too well, such as the kindness on his eyes, the small smile that seems to always be there, even in times of difficulty; and the new, the crows feet, the gray hair, the hardness of lines on his face that were once soft. James changes his grip and squeezes Thomas' hand, running his thumb over the knuckles. He holds Thomas' gaze for a second longer before letting go.

*

While he waited for the workday to be over James paced the length of Thomas’ cabin over and over again, pausing only to eat some of the stale piece of bread he found and to relieve himself by the trees. He is, at last, settled by the table when Thomas finally returns.

"I've noticed there is only one bed," James says by way of greeting.

“Oh, yes, the other one had to be burned,” he shakes his head, “after poor Mr. Johnson was taken from this world.” He moves about in the cabin, clearly following his daily routine, as he speaks. “Give me a moment to wash up and then we can go for supper.”

Thomas has his back to him as he removes his shirt. _God_. There are marks on his back, distinct straight line that cannot be mistaken for anything other than the whip. Thomas doesn’t seem to remember they are there, or perhaps they don’t bother him, in any way the marks look old enough not to hurt Thomas. It _does_ hurt James to face them.

“I wish we could eat in private,” Thomas is saying as he uses a small basin and an old cloth to clean himself. “Alas, it is a luxury we cannot –”

“Miranda is dead,” James blurts out.

Thomas swivels around in such haste he knocks the basin down to the floor.  They have yet to light the candles, but there is still enough light coming from outside for James to see the rosy color the day had rendered Thomas’ cheeks leave his face all at once.

“Peter,” James goes on, “Ashe… his men.” Each word feels as rusted blade being thrust into flesh. “I was so naïve. We thought we could converse with him, we considered him a friend still but…”

"He'd sold his soul to my father," Thomas says. He leans against the dresser. His eyes shine under the dim light. James stands up, though something compels him to stay where he is, in place of crossing the distance between them to hold Thomas in his grief. It is his, after all, and James cannot rob him of it. "I had suspected I… I…”

“He didn’t visit you at the hospital, did he?”

Thomas shakes his head. He crosses his arms over his chest as he takes a shaky breath. "Were you with her," he asks softly. "Tell me, were you together until the very end?"

The lie might fester their bound, but James does not think he can bear to tell Thomas about how Miranda’s body was put on display for the amusement of others. So he simply nods in response, and at last moves toward Thomas. He gently uncrosses Thomas’ arms and puts his own around him. He rests his head against Thomas’ shoulders. “I am so sorry.”

It takes a moment, and then Thomas finally returns the embrace.

*

“What is to be done with you?” Thomas asks as they lay together in the small bed, their legs tangled between each other.

James rests his head on Thomas’s chest. He counts a couple of heartbeats before he answers, “I’m to work with the rest of you.” He recounts the meeting he had in the afternoon, with the owner of the plantation. “Sil… the man who brought me here had clear instructions." James raises his head and turns so he can face Thomas. "I am to be with you," he says with a sly smile. "If this is a place to reprehend us for our inclinations, it has miserably failed its purpose." Or, at the very least, it is not strong enough to oppose the word of Long John Silver.

Thomas snorts. “That it has.” James frowns and Thomas laughs at it. “I told you! Most of these men are here for the same reason as mine. And they put us all together.” He shakes his head in mirth. “Poor management, I tell you,” he says, and with that, leans forward to plant a chaste kiss on James’ forehead, urging him to lie back down.

James closes his eyes and savors the quiet. He feels strangely calm, faced with the knowledge he is to spend the rest of his life working for another man’s gain. Though he supposes it is a price he has been due –that he ought – to pay for a long time. Or perhaps restlessness will someday creep up on him, and he will start plotting ways to get the two of them out of this place without even realizing he is doing it. It is all unknown and, for a moment, for the first time in his life, he does not seem to care.

“Your silence speaks volumes, you do know that,” Thomas says. His fingers trace lazy patterns along the skin of James’ back, no doubt following the constellation of freckles he has there.

“And it bothers you?”

“Only when it bothers _you_ ,” Thomas retorts. “You worry about the future.” It is no question and James makes no effort to oppose the statement. “You shouldn’t. Tomorrow is the same as today, the same as the next day and so forth.”

Part of James wants to ask since when has he become such a pessimist, but he holds his tongue. And besides, he is almost certain he already knows when it happened.

“So what should we do of this endless cycle?” James asks.

“I feel I ought to urge you to rebel against it… but I am much too tired of fighting and I believe you are the same.”

"We should live today and let tomorrow be a problem for the men we’ll be by then," James says. "Would that satisfy you?" He looks up to gauge the answer in Thomas' eyes.

"Perhaps," Thomas admits, "but not you. I know your heart. I believe it hasn't changed to the point of unrecognition. If you want to go, I'll go with you. I know there’s a lifetime we have yet to disclose to one another, but my feelings remain unchanged, and I’d follow you anywhere if you wanted me.”

“And if I wanted to stay?”

“Then I’d make this place our home.”

 *

James finds that there are stories easier told than others. He can talk about the beginning of his friendship with Mr. Gates, but his throat closes when he tries to explain the end of it. He can talk about Nassau, but not about Eleanor; the _Walrus_ , but not its crew. He never once utters Silver’s name.

Thomas is much the same with his own tales. He chooses from his stories the ones he knows will cause less pain. He talks about friends he has made along the way, none of which are still in his life. He is quiet when he hears about his father's demise. He sheds no tears, but he also chooses to spend the night outside that day.

It is a quiet life, as he predicted. Workdays blend in together inasmuch it would be an impossible task to set them apart. But the evenings are theirs, and they try to make the most of it. Thomas has acquired a few books over the years and one day, after supper, James finally gathers the courage to ask Thomas to read for him. Now he has once more grown used to falling asleep to the gentle sound of Thomas’ voice.

*

They receive the package a few months after James’ arrival.

“It’s from the West Indies,” James announces as Thomas peeks at it from over his shoulder.

“Well, open it.”

James doesn’t dwell further onto the whos and whys and sets about carefully ripping out the brown paper. What he finds inside is a shock for the both of them.

_Meditations._

It’s their book. The one Thomas gave him, the one James was sure had been lost in the flames at Miranda’s house. Apparently, it did not.

“How in God’s name…” Thomas wonders.

The cover and the sides are charred, but it seems to still be readable. When James looks inside he finds Thomas’ inscription is still there.

 _Silver_ , James thinks. There is no other logical explanation.

Thomas’ fingers shake slightly as he runs them over his own writing. “Oh,” he sighs.

There is a great deal of emotion in his eyes when James looks at him. The only shame he feels now is of having let, for so long, what other people thought of him cloud his own judgment of himself. "I promise," he says, glancing at the page and then back at Thomas.

Thomas smiles, with a touch of sadness to it, though still genuine and warm. “Would you read for me tonight?” He asks quietly.

And James, holding his gaze with a small smile of his own, nods.

**_The end_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Florence + the Machine's Never let me go


End file.
